On Writing and Un-writing.

Everything we write must be written with the constant anticipation of un-writing. As religious people we are caught up in the ebb and flow of God. Of God who breathes creation one moment and then destroys it in a flood the next. Of a God who is always on the tip of our tongues, but who (or which) may never be exhausted by any words written, or dreams dreamed.1

So it is with great trepidation that I write. For as soon as I write, I must begin an ascetic practice of un-writing. Though, I must write. For though I may have to un-write my writings. It is far better to have written them and un-written them, than for them to remain simply unwritten.

I will write. I will write to give a voice to those on the margins. Though, I must always remember that I must let those on the margins un-write or critique my writing. For I write on a laptop, in a warm home, on a comfortable couch. But everyone writes from somewhere. There is no utopian writing from nowhere. So I start from where I am, and I hope and pray that in the process I will find myself caught up in the light of those who reveal truth, that is, those on the margins, those who are suffering.

And I will un-write. I will un-write to give voice to those I have left out. To those I have overlooked. To those that my frenetic prose has left unheard, unseen. I will constantly un-write and be unwritten. I will allow myself to be unwritten, but not written off. My voice will be heard, but it is only one voice among many. One writing among a cacaphony of writing. My writing only makes sense in the context of the writing around me.

So I write tentatively, but I write. And I un-write.

  1. Though, I suspect our dreams are often more precise than our words [BACK]

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